Living The Lie
by newxyorkxloser
Summary: Goodnight, Carly," She says, hugging me and kissing my cheek, and I just stand there and hug her back like a robot. CarlyxSam twoshot
1. Carly

Sigh. Writer's block. Sigh. Forcing yourself to write through writer's block. The shit that results from it is below, and may make your brains leak out your ears.

But there isn't enough cam. So I guess I'll post it. Even if it's another post breakup story. :/

--

She looks over at me, completely unaware of her hand brushing against my arm and her thigh touching mine just the tiniest little bit, this cute little confused look on her face, because she can still figure out when something's wrong. I don't know why or how, it just happens.

I'm completely aware of how utterly wrong this whole situation is. The fact that she's my ex girlfriend now, not my girlfriend, but we're sitting in my apartment watching movies and curled up under a blanket like nothing changed, but that's such a lie, because everything changed. For me, at least. Maybe not her, because nothing can ever fucking touch her. She's just so high and mighty and she can sit there and roll with the punches and break my heart and it doesn't phase her. She can sit there and touch me like she is and it doesn't give her chills or make the stubble on her legs stand on end like it does for me.

I'm crazy. That must be it.

Ex. Girlfriend. Not girlfriend. Ex.

Best friend.

God. It's fucked up. I'm fucked up.

This whole thing is just fucked up. I'm the only one that sees it, I must be, because I'm the one with the broken heart or whatever, not her. It's just fine for her.

Nothing fucking touches her. I thought I could, thought I did. And I did, physically at least. There isn't a part of that girl's body that I haven't touched, but past that, nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing. I don't know who I thought I was shitting when I told myself that I meant a thing, like I would be that one person who could touch the untouchable girl.

I'm glad I didn't lose her, don't get me wrong. I think, anyway. She's been my best friend for years and if nothing else, I'm glad it didn't all go up in smoke and she didn't just disappear on me like so many other exes have. Fuck and run. Just up and leave and I never hear from any of them again. I mean, I don't think that I'm all that great, but I never really thought I was _that_ awful.

"You okay?" She asks, and it's that voice again, the one that I'd never really heard before until we were together, the one that makes it sound like she really, honestly does care. But she doesn't care, I can't let myself think that, because then I'll convince myself that I still have a chance and I'll never be able to fucking move on. I'll be forty and living in a box with a bunch of cats and her picture and I'll sit on a street corner, holding some grimy old frame of her, asking if anybody's seen this girl.

I'm pathetic.

"Yeah?" I'll just pretend that nothing's wrong, that she doesn't make me feel a thing anymore, that none of the nights we spent naked and tangled up in each other and the sheets on my bed didn't mean a thing and they never did, the way it is for her.

This is all so wrong. This used to be so perfect and it used to be all flowers and rainbows (hah, rainbows, get the joke? I know, I'm really clever) and unicorns and all that other shit, and now it's like a drug addict shivering in the rain with an HIV infected needle clenched in his shaking hands.

I know what wrong feels like, damnit. I felt it every time some boy put his hand up my shirt and let his dick talk to my vagina when he whispered that he loved me.

"I'm okay, really," I add, because she's still looking at me like she cares, like she really gives a fuck at all. And fine, maybe I'm being too hard on her, maybe I'm being harsh, but I'm just trying to be like the way she always seems, how she doesn't give a crap about anything. I don't normally lie. I really don't, I just can't. "I'm okay," doesn't really count as a lie though, because it's the same one every teenager recites through their broken hearts. It means more than all the other ones, really, but it's okay because it's everybody else's lie, not mine.

I can do this. I can be like her, act like I'm okay. I can actually be okay if I keep it up long enough, because it's a lie and once you start telling the same lie over and over, you start to believe it yourself.

I'll live in my own lie and be a shadow of her and everybody else who can keep it together through shitty breakups and those fucking exes who won't just let you move on.

She shrugs, looks back at the tv and I feel her hand slipping away, but the goosebumps and the chills and the way my lip trembles when I bite it don't go with it.

Finally, she mumbles something about how it's getting late, and I guess it is, because the clock on my cable box says that it's one in the morning, but it never used to bother her before. Being home on time was never important when we walked for miles to all the fields she knew outside the city where we'd lay and stare at the stars while the clock crept past four.

Fine, I'm over-emotional and I overanalyze her and I know that things are different, I just hate it.

And then I'm standing at my door and she's on the other side of the doorframe, and it's just a piece of wood on the ground but it feels like a wall. She's got her hands shoved in her pockets and she's looking at the floor, shifting her weight from one leg to the other like she can't just stand still.

"Goodnight, Carly," She says, hugging me and kissing my cheek, and I just stand there and hug her back like a robot.

Then she's gone and I'm standing there with my hand on my doorknob and the other on my cheek, and all those chills and goosebumps fell out of her body through her lips and they're my problem again, and it doesn't feel as wrong as it did before.

The feeling creeps back while I climb the stairs back to my room, and it's taken over by the time I've laid down on my bed, my face in my pillow and my arms thrown in front of me.

I don't realize that I'm crying until I'm choking through sobs, and by then it's too late to do anything about it, and I'm realizing that I really can't lie. I don't even completely know why I'm crying, I just am, because supposedly it helps.

Just keep living the lie.


	2. Sam

"Goodnight, Carly," I mumble into my sleeve, and then I'm hugging her and she's hugging me back but she feels so stiff, like she absolutely hates it and then I regret it, almost as much as I regret kissing her on the cheek.

And it's when I start to realize that she must have moved on by now, because it's only natural and I can't expect her to wait around on me like I'm waiting around on myself that I turn and leave without looking back like I normally would.

I'm standing at the top of the staircase when I hear the door slam shut, and I stand there for a moment, my hand on the rail, and I realize that she must hate me.

It's not unreasonable, really, because I would hate me too, but it fucking hurts. It's not unreasonable for her to hate me because I'm the one that dumped her, and I guess it's unreasonable for me to be so hurt. I've always thought that it's only the one who gets dumped who's allowed to mope and whine and miss whoever it was that decided to pack up and leave, but it's me that got hurt most.

She's just fine. She's just fine without me. And I thought that maybe I meant something, but she just sits there and smiles and laughs like she always does, and I guess I do the same time, but it's all hollow smiles and dead laughter, and if she knew me at all, she'd realize that.

Or maybe she does. Maybe she realizes and she thinks I'm crazy or she's sitting in her living room right now and thinking, "Too fucking bad, Sam," because that's what anybody would think. Too fucking bad, I'm the one who screwed up.

It's not like I dumped her because I don't like her. I really like her. She's my best friend. I love her. I'm _in_ love her, for christ sake, I'm just.. I don't even know. i was confused, okay? I don't even know what I was confused about, I just broke up with her because I thought it would be better at the time.

Yeah fucking right.

I don't mean to be angry or bitter. I just am. I'm mad at myself for being so stupid and I'm mad at her for moving on when I still want her more than anything in the world, which is kind of a stupid reason for me to be mad, but it doesn't matter because I'm stupid and I do stupid things like breaking up with amazing girls like Carly Shay.

Something was wrong, I know it was, but she wouldn't even tell me when I asked. And fine, I'm her ex, but I'm her friend too, and that comes first, doesn't it? She'd always tell me whatever it was that was wrong, even if it was my fault or something.

God, she hates me.

I lit my cigarette before I was even completely out of her apartment building, and I really couldn't care less. And then I'm standing out in the rain pouring down on the early morning streets of Seattle and the streetlights burn my eyes and blur together, so I walk with my head down and my hand cupped over my cigarette.

She hates me. She absolutely hates me and I shouldn't even bother calling anymore because I just make her miserable.

Or maybe I'm paranoid. Maybe she's fine and she's fine with the whole breakup thing and she just wants to forget about it and pretend that nothing ever changed, but that'd just be a fucking lie, because everything's changed. Absolutely everything.

I'll just sit in her kitchen and gorge myself on ham and pretend that nothing's wrong, because if you pretend long enough it's like the play you put on with the emotions you puppet becomes real. It's like the writers who write and write and they turn their characters into their perfect people and they fall in love with their words.

I was confused, okay? I don't know why I broke up with her. It's complicated. It's complicated and it made sense at the time but now all the reasons have gone and drowned in some abyss and what was normal and logical at the time seems insane.

And it's like the ghost of all the things that could have been is following me around because I have goosebumps, the same ones I would get whenever she kissed me, and I feel my heart beating in my chest like it's about to burst. Which is dumb, because I'm fifteen and fifteen year olds' hearts don't just burst on the spot like that.

I'm just crazy, so I ignore the feeling and keep walking while the rain soaks through my shirt.

Just ignore all the things she makes you feel. That'll work. Just act like it's okay and I'm okay and it'll be okay, someday. I'll turn into my puppets and I'll follow the motions they're supposed to go through until they're my own.

Just keep living the lie.

--

I just realized how much this is based off a couple of girls I know, right after they broke up. One of them is named Sam. Sam is based off her. Dx confusing.


End file.
